


These Four Walls

by RealUnicornFrappuchino (VinWrit)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Dev/Niall, Background Penny/Micah - Freeform, Baz said Be Gay Do Crime, But they're working through them, Canon-Typical levels of Violence, Domestic Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, Fluff, M/M, Malcolm Grimm's A+ parenting, Mordelia is the awesome younger sister Baz deserves, Neighbours AU, Passive-agressive scones, Post-Book 1: Carry On, Post-Watford, Pre-Book 2: Wayward Son, Simon and Baz have issues, but don't worry he gets better, enemies to flatmates to amateur detectives to friends to lovers, slight angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24086896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VinWrit/pseuds/RealUnicornFrappuchino
Summary: Simon Snow has officially retired from saving the world. His magick is burned out, just an ember left in the cavity of his chest and the bottom of his lungs, and he's found himself almost next to normal. He has a flat. He puts dents in the walls far too often and stays up far too late. Life goes on.Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch just wants to get out from under the thumb of his overbearing father, and will resort to even less-than-legal means to do so. He's a mage who never went to Watford, and there's a secret burning like acid in his mouth. Finding his mother's killer would be a bonus; but life goes on.If only their respective neighbours weren't so awful...
Relationships: Agatha Wellbelove & Happiness, Dev/Niall (Simon Snow), Penelope Bunce & Simon Snow, Penelope Bunce & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 25
Kudos: 48





	1. Next Door Normal

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone!  
> Vin here. I've been working on this one for a while and I'm excited to finally post it. Please be aware that there is no fixed update schedule for this one, though - like all my other works for various fandoms, I'm working around writing my novel, Strange Orbits, and juggling college assignments. I'll try and stay as far ahead as I can in regards to getting chapters done, but I can't make any promises.
> 
> Extra special thanks to Britishbooks @Tumblr, who was kind enough to do some proofreading for me, which is very much appreciated.
> 
> If you want to talk, I'm on Tumblr @Vintagecar-but-onfire! Come and say hi!

**Simon**

I’m pulling a tray of sour cherry scones out of the oven when the new tenant moves into the flat next door. 

Winter Term should be beginning at Watford now, and instead I’m here in my own kitchen, a wall of hot air hitting me straight in the face as I slide the oven door closed. The whole flat smells of pastry and butter and sugar. Cook Pritchard had sent the recipe in the post when she’d heard that I wasn’t planning on returning. She’d seemed sad about the whole thing.

But it’s a bit tricky to be a student at a magickal school when you’ve got no magick worth a toss, isn’t it? Seems more than a bit counterproductive to me. The Humdrum’s gone. There’s no need for a _Chosen One_ if there’s no big bad monster to fight: and after what happened, I’m not surprised that everything fell as far apart as it did after The Mage died.

Agatha’s in California. There’s a postcard stuck to my fridge, but I haven't heard much from her since. And Penny’s living with Micah, since he decided to come back to England for uni. She’s starting her Politics course in the autumn. And I'm... here. Central London.

After I poured all my magic into the Humdrum last summer in Lancashire, and filled the holes, and The Mage keeled over - _undiagnosed heart problems and shock_ , they’d told me, after the inquest - I’d gone and fetched my things, and I'd left Watford, as quietly as I could. Mrs Bunce had wanted me to take a place on the Coven, being The Mage’s Heir and all, but I'd wanted nothing to do with it. 

My flat’s in a great location. It’s big - two double bedrooms and a large bathroom, living-room, and kitchen. It’s got narrow windows and high ceilings; although they’re full of deep scratches and chips now in the places where the wings I’d given myself have caught them. It would have been expensive, Penny says, if I hadn’t managed to snag it at an auction. 

(Never again - the place had been full of tories and banker-types in their polished shoes and tailored suits. It was almost like being back in front of the Coven; I’d felt so out of place.)

When The Mage died, I'd inherited everything - and that apparently included a cottage in Wales, deep in the countryside in the middle of fucking nowhere. I’d stayed there a week. It was dusty and damp and far too cold, and the quiet was nice at first, until it got to be too much. At that point I’d come straight back, sold the place, and refused to think about it again. The money had been enough to buy this new flat outright. It’s always loud and warm, this close to the middle of the Capital, and I can almost imagine that the constant buzzing and the rumble of traffic in the back of my head is the overflowing magick that used to stick there. But things are working, I think. Everyone seems to be okay. 

I’ve been directed to a magickal therapist before, but I haven't been to see her yet. It's not that I’m not willing to try it - the whole therapy thing - but there’s no point. I’m basically a Normal now, and knowing how underfunded the NHS is, I suppose I just have to keep moving on, because there’s no one else able to pick up the pieces.

I slide the scones onto a wire cooling-rack, turning, and my tail knocks a spoon off the counter with a clatter, smearing a fat dollop of butter onto the clean black flooring-tiles as it flies across the room. A sigh heaves itself from my chest, and I turn to wipe it up and flick the kettle on to boil, almost smacking myself straight in the face with a leathery red wing. Fuck. 

I hate these stupid things. Occasionally I can find the strength to magick them away myself, but Penny usually comes round every few days and takes care of it with her angel spell. Either way, it never hides them for much longer than a few hours. Her dad’s sure that my magick will come back properly eventually - a normal amount, like everybody else has - but I’m not holding out hope. 

I’m not entirely sure that I want to be a mage again. Maybe Aggie had the right idea, in the end. In the one call I’ve had from her since she moved away, she seemed so much happier than she ever was with me, and I can’t resent her for it.

I bat the wing out of my face, and turn back to the scones and the freshly-boiled kettle. It’s dark outside, pissing it down with rain, and as I head towards the sofa with a cup of tea in hand, I watch a police car go whizzing by in the lamp-lit street below, sirens blaring, towards Hackney. 

I sink into the sofa, and slurp down some of my tea, and put the mug down on the worn surface of the coffee table. 

There’s a loud thump from outside my door, and louder curses. My tail jolts and lashes clumsily from side to side in confusion, and sends one of the many cluttered mugs on the table flying, splashing tea across the carpet and chipping the handle of the mug off completely. I jump, and my wings crush against the sofa, and I’m sent crashing to the floor, taking the table with me with an almighty crack of sound. Whoever was outside was quiet. I’d heard no footsteps.

In the same moment, the cursing outside stops, and the same voice speaks again. “Cro-” they start, louder, and there’s another crash and the clattering of china. “Fuck!”

Whoever they are - and I'm fairly sure that they’re a bloke - they have a bloody posh voice. It’s deep and smooth and impossibly _different_. Cultured, maybe. I think they call it received pronunciation, or something, because it's a voice that’s eloquent in a way I could never quite copy, not even after the classes at Watford, when I was young and full of stammers and stutters. And I’ve definitely never heard it before. 

I lurch to my feet, tucking the wings tight to my shoulderblades, the wicked black claws at the tips catching against the backs of my knees, and shove on an old, ratty coat to hide them. The table’s still tipped over on its side, and there’s an alarming split in the wood now. I stumble to my feet, and - _oh, fuck_ \- trip over my tail again. 

And then I carefully step around the debris of the sitting room, and crack the door open, just enough to see out, and my eyes meet a grey pair across the hallway.

I fumble a little behind the door as my tail makes a bid for escape, and then, I offer my hand to the stranger. “Hi - I’m Simon.” I say, and then, dumbly, “Sorry ‘bout the noise.”

“I’d think so.” He says, and, _fuck_ , what a posh twat he is.You’d think that it’d be typical for this sort of area, but the rest of my neighbours are actually pretty down-to-earth. This new neighbour obviously isn't.

He looks exactly how his voice sounds. 

From the first glance I can guess that he’s got a face made for sneering; it’s a sharp face, porcelain-pale and intimidatingly perfect. And it seems that I’m right, judging by the curl of his lip and the quirk of his brow, and the tense and haughty set of his jaw. He’s tall, wearing a fancy shirt that would have cost me at least a month’s wages, and dark jeans. His eyes are dark grey and slightly wide, and his hair’s gelled back from his face in a way that seems almost harsh. He has a widow’s peak. It should make him look goofy, like some sort of cartoonish vampire, but it somehow… doesn't. 

I cringe under his glare, realising that I’ve been staring, and my eyes drop to his shoes. They’re shiny oxfords. He probably has dozens of pairs of ‘em in all the colours under the sun, all shined to perfection. 

I have one pair of my own that I’d picked up for job interviews. Scuffed brown leather, and worn-down heels. Second-hand, because old habits are hard to break. They’re half-a-size too small by now. I should probably bin them.

At his feet is a box of crockery, the battered cardboard stamped all over with the logo of some online department store I’ve never heard of. That must’ve been the clanging I'd heard. The plates inside it are brand-new, but one of them’s smashed, and the box is on its side and looks like it’s been bashed about, obviously recently dropped. 

“What happened?” I say, like an idiot. He scoffs. I’ve never seen anyone look so much like a Bond villain in my life. 

“Isn’t it evident?” He asks, raising one perfect brow. I frown, and he rolls his eyes, dropping his tone condescendingly. “People tend to drop things when startled by loud noises.”

“Oh.” I run a hand sheepishly through my hair, and then - “I can replace them?”

“Don’t bother.” He huffs, and goes into the flat next door. It had been empty. It obviously isn’t any more. 

And then he’s gone, leaving only a handful of ceramic shards behind him on the old hallway carpet, as if he expects me to pick them up. His door slams behind him.

I sigh, and shut my door. 

* * *

**Baz**

This is it. I only have one more box to move into the new flat, and the long con begins. Father - Malcolm - is still convinced that my application to LSE was accepted. 

I see no reason to dissuade him from his assumption. I won’t be letting it slip that I’m actually going to the Royal Academy of Music. He thinks it’s bad enough that I’m not going on to Oxford like Dev is. 

“ _You’d at least have a potential alliance there.”_ He’d said, and never mind the fact that Dev and I have only met twice. That’s Malcolm in a nutshell. He’s all about politics and power-plays and advantages, and talking to him is like talking to a commanding officer. He’s convinced that this is war. 

I’ll be starting classes officially next week - although I’m allowed access to the buildings from tomorrow onwards. I’d had a letter summarily informing me that although I was late, I would still be allowed to attend, although they wouldn’t be pulling any punches when it came to grading the work I'd missed. 

(Maybe that would change if they knew that the eight weeks I’d missed had been because I’d been trapped in a coffin by a bunch of fucking numpties - and Malcolm, fucking _Malcolm_ , had told everybody that I was off skiing in the Alps. He hadn’t even offered to pay the ransom they wanted. Fiona had had to rescue me, and when I stumbled home half-starved and covered in mud and blood and other, more questionable substances, he’d just raised an eyebrow; as if we were simply late for dinner.) (He’d thought I wasn’t in any danger, but it’s a bit difficult to fight your way out of a numpty den without a wand.)

(That was when I decided that I should probably move out.)

Mordelia’s sprawled out in the living-room when I bring the glassware in from the boot of Fiona’s car - upside-down, her feet in their scuffed converse kicked up against the back of the sofa. I should be annoyed: it was only delivered yesterday, and she’s already smudged little dark scuffs into the fabric, but instead I smile. Her hair’s fanned out in a wild tangle around her head. Daphne had thrown a fit when she’d cut it into a messy bob and dyed it pink over the bathroom sink, but I have to admit that the look suits her, even if she could have used magick to get the same result.

She’s fifteen and trouble in a way that’s all Pitch, and I’m proud. 

Her glasses are slipping down her nose. I put the box I’m carrying down, and set the wire frames back into place, and she huffs. “When are we ordering pizza?” 

I throw one of the menus I’d dug out from the cutlery draw at her, and it smacks her gently on the chin. “Go ahead and phone for Domino’s. I’m nearly done anyway.”

Mordy grins. “I’m going to order it with extra pineapple. And mushrooms.”

I groan. Mordelia _has_ helped with the move, I suppose. If she hadn’t been pestering me to get up early to look at flats, I would still be sleeping on an air-bed amidst all the clutter in Fiona’s spare room, so I’m marginally grateful. I’d be more so if she’d helped with any of the heavy lifting; but she and Fiona had gone to get some shopping done and left me to it, and by the time they got back I only had the smaller boxes left to move. 

Pineapple on pizza is a small price to pay for their discretion, though. 

The flat’s closer to LSE than it is to the Academy. That’s important, for safety’s sake, just in case Malcolm or the Grimms come looking. I’ve got to admit, it’s a convincing cover. Both schools are only a bus ride - or if the weather’s good, a brisk walk - away. It’s exciting. 

Realistically, I can make this work, and the thought knocks the bottom out of my stomach and leaves me near-gasping at this sudden rush of freedom. I haven’t been away from the Manor for so long in my entire life - but it’s been nearly three months since I first crashed out on Fiona’s old sofa. 

This - my own flat, with me about to start school - feels more fantastical than the idea of Watford ever did, when Fiona had told me her stories. It’s unreal. I couldn’t have imagined this, not ever. Not in my wildest dreams.

I just have the plates left to move, and that’s it. Fiona’s been texting me to come down and get them from her car, so that’s what I do. I collect the box, and she winds down her window with a scowl. 

“Basil.” She says, and narrows her eyes. “What took you so long, boyo? Christ’s sake, it’s freezing out here!”

It isn’t actually that cold, but I figure it’s best to humour her, so I get the box from the passenger seat and explain. “Mordelia wanted to order pizza.” 

“You have pizza in the freezer.” She points out. "I put it there." 

I sigh. “According to her it’s not the same.”

“Ah.” Fiona says. “I suppose she’s right. Good luck with that.” 

“I’ll need it.” I shake my head, and Fiona winds the car window back up and heads back to her own flat on the other side of the city. We’ve already agreed that Mordelia’s going to camp out in the living room of my place tonight and head home early in the morning, considering that it’s already nearly midnight and the Hampshire estate’s a full two hours away by train. 

I dread having to wake her up. She’s always terribly cranky in the mornings, even more so when she’s had less than eight hours of sleep. 

I start to make my way back up to my flat. There’s four floors, and I’m on the third one. It’s a trek. The building’s old, and there’s not a lift - it’s the kind of place where the gilt on the stair-rails is almost completely worn away, and the hallway carpets are plush, but thick with the smell of dust. 

This place was full of grandeur, once - but now it’s slowly becoming a bit of a dump. It’ll do for the ruse, but I expect that I won’t be staying here longer than the few years of my course at the Academy. 

The rent’s almost extortionate, even with my generous allowance from Malcolm, but this _is_ Central London, so I know I can’t be too picky. Space is at a premium. If I’d put down my deposit an hour later, I wouldn’t have got the flat at all.

(I try not to think about the fact that I’d had to charm the money to make it stretch far enough, and most of the time it works. It’s hard to feel guilty when you’ve got a roof over your head.)

And, despite my misgivings, the building’s alright, and my fellow residents seem mostly okay.

They don't seem overly nosy or noisy, although when I'd first got the keys the elderly woman in the flat below had invited me for tea and spent nearly an hour talking at me about her cats over stale biscuits and Tesco earl grey, the two of us curled up in musty armchairs with lace antimacassars gone yellow with age. I would have been stuck there longer, had I not made my excuses about picking Mordelia up from school.

(Which isn't technically a lie. She doesn't go to Watford; home-schooled instead, like I was, because Malcolm's overly cautious when it comes to putting any of us under the Coven's eye. So picking her up from Hampshire counts.)

Tea with Maureen hadn't exactly been unpleasant, but it was uncomfortable, her overt friendliness akin to that of the great enemy of British personal space and retail therapy, the American Salesman.

I'm lucky enough to have a balcony, which means that I'll eventually be able to get some patio furniture, and maybe a small garden. The view's not brilliant, and there's so much smog in London that I won't be able to hang my washing out to dry - as if I'd ever want to do that. But it’s a bonus nonetheless, I suppose. 

I finally reach my floor, and shift the box of plates in my arms, fumbling for my key, and stop dead. It's not there, and I can remember with inconvenient clarity that I had forgotten to pick it up from the bowl over the mantelpiece.

"Fucking Merlin." I mutter.

Perhaps if I knocked with my feet, Mordelia would bother to let me in - though I'm certain that kicking the door of one's residence down isn't acceptable etiquette. I resign myself to it, though, and my foot connects with the bottom panel of the door with a hollow thud. 

And then, as if this situation isn't bad enough, I drop my phone, and it lands with an almighty thump on the dusty carpet, the screen bright with sudden, spider’s-web cracks.

There's a crash from behind the neighbour's door. "Crowl-" I start, and quickly censor myself, because who knows whether the neighbours are Normal or not.

And then the box in my arms slips, and falls to the ground on its side, and one of the plates inside spills out in a spray of white shards over the carpet.

"Fuck!" I snarl. It's bad enough that I'm cold and tired and it's nearly one in the morning. It's bad enough that I still haven't decided what spell I'll use to put the kitchen to rights. But now, this? 

The universe must hate me. There can be no other explanation. 

I round on the neighbour’s door, my lip curling into a sneer, fangs buzzing beneath my gums as I fight the urge to snarl. And then, I lift my hand to knock. 

To do what, I’m not exactly sure. To demand an explanation, perhaps, or report them to the local Neighbourhood Watch for causing a disturbance. Either way, there’s another loud crash, and then - 

Then the door opens. And the person looking through the crack between door and frame is peering cautiously out, before they spot me. 

He’s perfectly ordinary. That’s the first fact that hits me, out of everything that’s happened today, and it’s enough to snap me out of the dreamlike high of a new beginning. If this were some rom-com or adventure film he would be stunning - but instead he’s ordinary enough to send me crashing back to Earth.

He’s shorter than me, with a ratty beige coat pulled loosely around his shoulders as if he’s about to go out, and his hair is a coppery bronze colour that looks drab and ashy in the greasy, yellowish light from the hallway. It falls in loose curls across his forehead, the sides buzzed into the undercut style that’s so popular right now, and he has the sort of face that makes a haircut like that look good. It’s an open face. Honest. Strongly-built.

His skin is a warm tawny colour; tanned, but somehow pale, as if he doesn’t go out much. What little I can see of him, before the door cuts him off, is spattered with freckles and moles and tiny scars, like a living Jackson Pollock painting. He is completely, utterly ordinary. 

I don’t get a chance to wipe the sneer off my face, because then he’s talking. He stutters, and there’s a sheepish look in his eye that shouldn’t be as endearing as it is. It’s infuriating. 

“Hi - I’m Simon.” he mutters - and then, looking down, “Sorry ‘bout the noise.”

He’s looking down, eyes catching on the crumpled box at my feet, and he’s shuffling slightly, as if there’s an itch between his shoulder-blades that he just can’t reach.

He lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck, and his coat-sleeve slips down to his elbow. It shouldn’t be as distracting as it is - but his forearms are freckled and criss-crossed with what look like claw-marks. Most of them are faded, but some look recent, and the angry words I want to say die in my throat. Instead, I settle on cold cordiality. 

“I should think so.” I say. 

And then he’s asking - mumbling, really - what’s happened, and I start to wonder whether he actually has functioning eyes. Isn’t it obvious? He’s clearly no mage; his mastery of speech is shit.

I can’t help but raise a brow, and he finally looks up and meets my eye. His own eyes are a perfectly ordinary shade of blue, and the bad lighting in here washes the colour out to a faded shade of denim. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” I drawl. I’m still not sure if I should be amused or angry about the whole situation. “People tend to drop things when startled by loud noises.”

He sighs, and he looks exhausted. There are dark circles under his eyes that must surely match my own. “I can replace them?”

“Don’t bother.”I tell him, and scoop the box back into my arms. I’ll magick it all back together as soon as I can get a chance to put the box down.

He frowns. I leave. I have to finish unpacking.

* * *

**Simon**

I fetch a dustpan and brush from the cupboard under the sink and clear up the mess in the hallway before anyone steps in it, although I doubt anyone is likely to pass through these hallways this late at night. I’d magick it away, but I don't have the energy. The sky outside is that odd kind of black that seems too bright. 

I love London at night. It never sleeps, and I find it so much easier to drift off if I’m not deafened by my own thoughts. Not thinking gets much harder the longer I'm cut off from magick.

While I'm out, I check the brass plaque outside the neighbour’s door. There’s the flat number - 19 - and a little window for the occupant to put a card with their name on it. My own has a bit of masking tape stuck over it that simply says ‘ _Simon’_ in Mrs. Bunce’s cramped handwriting , because she says it’s too risky to have my full name on show to the public when I have so many enemies. 

(As it is, I nearly got abducted by a goblin cabbie in september. They still don’t have a king yet. Maybe they should switch to democracy.)

I’m not sure - even if I can’t fight back with magick, or _go off_ anymore, I can still summon my sword - and if that fails I have fists and feet. But I trust her logic.

According to the neighbour’s card - a proper business card with silver writing, neatly tucked behind the glass - his name is T. Pitch. 

I know who the Pitches were. Every mage does - at one point they’d controlled most of Magickal Britain. Natasha Grimm-Pitch had been Watford’s headmistress before the Mage took over. And she’d been killed in the line of duty. By vampires.

They’d said that she'd had a son who would have been my age - but when no more Pitches had shown up at Watford, most people had assumed that he hadn’t survived the attack. The theory was that the name had died out.

My new neighbour can’t be one of _those_ Pitches. I’ve seen Natasha’s portrait; it used to hang in the Mage’s office until it was taken down to go into storage sometime around my third year; but he can’t possibly be related. He’s too pale, his face far too sharp. And he swears like a Normal. 

Sure, he’s a posh knob, but he’s nowhere on par with any of the Old Families. If he was, he’d be lounging about in a mansion somewhere. Not in the middle of London in a third-floor flat with a structurally-unsafe balcony and no wall-cavity insulation. He has a sofa from IKEA, for christ’s sake; I’d seen it being delivered. At the time I’d assumed that Sandra and Ken down the hall had ordered it.

I go back to my flat. As soon as the door’s shut, I throw the coat I’m wearing over the back of the sofa. It’s not something I need to worry about. The shards of the broken plate go straight in the bin.

Penny says I need to get out of the habit of second-guessing everything and everyone. Perhaps she’s right.

I stick what’s left of my tea in the microwave and reheat it, and then I stretch my wings out. They don’t seem to like being confined for longer than a few minutes at a time, but until I can get the hang of any of the masking spells again, I'm going to have to deal with it. 

It’s bad enough that I can't do anything about the tail.

I put the TV on, and flick through it until I find some old Doctor Who reruns, and then I try to get the living room back in order. Penny’s popping round tomorrow morning - she’s trying to develop a better charm to hide the wings, and Micah thinks he’s found something in Spanish that might help. 

I’m not sure whether I should be hopeful or not. 


	2. In Plain Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Vin here!  
> So I was going to post this tomorrow but the ol’ insomnia’s playing up again, so I guess it’s going up now. 
> 
> I just want to say a massive thanks to britishbooks.tumblr.com for their valuable insights into this chapter. I probably would have taken much longer to edit without their help and feedback, and I am very grateful :)

**Baz**

When Mordelia finally lets me back into the flat, taunting me about forgetting my keys like the imp she is, she’s already ordered a pizza, and she takes a great amount of joy in reminding me that I had had my wand and could well have magicked my way back in. I'm too tired to argue that I'd also had my hands full.

I collapse onto the sofa. I need to go and hunt, really - the itch in my gums has been steadily getting worse for the last hour - but I can't keep blood in the fridge while Mordy's staying over. It's not that she doesn't know, because she's old enough that I'm fairly sure she's aware by now; but I'd rather not inflict the knowledge on her more times than what is strictly necessary. It's more a matter of personal pride than anything else.

The pizza arrives. I pay the delivery man, and Mordelia takes the boxes and sets them down on the coffee table. I turn to the box of plates on the sideboard and use a  **clean as a whistle** on them, before using a  **good as new** on the one that had broken.

Nothing happens. I try a  **make do and mend** , and then an  **all together now** , but the broken plate doesn't reform, which must mean that my normal neighbour has cleared the debris up and binned it already. It's a shame. I had liked this crockery set, and now I'm a plate short.

I drop the half-plate straight into the bin instead, and Mordelia looks at me sideways, already dividing up the pizza into separate slices.

"You could have kept that." She says. "Mother's gotten into making mosaics recently, with old ceramics. We could have used it. She wants to make a coffee table next."

"Well, it's too late for that, now." I say.

"Yeah, Captain Obvious."

I flop down onto the sofa again, and she shuffles up to make room, leaning against my side. Her eyelids are starting to droop. Even when we’re both sitting down, she's shorter than me, and her hair is such a mess that i have to resist the urge to brush it for her like I did when we were younger.

I hand her a plate, and she loads it with her awful mushroom-pineapple-meatball combination pizza. It's half-and-half; my half is a simple margherita, and I am fully aware that the garlic in it might well give me heartburn, but I can't be bothered to care. I can always just take some antacids later.

"How is Mother?" I ask.

"She misses you." Mordelia says, reaching past me for a pot of barbecue dip. "And she's worried. But the twins are causing trouble, so it keeps her busy. I think she's probably managed to convince them to help her in the garden by now."

I hum, and take a bite of pizza, looking away so that she doesn't notice how my cheeks have been filled out by the addition of four extra teeth. The fangs are noticeable, when they pop, and for that reason I rarely joined everyone else in the dining hall when I lived at home. 

Such an obvious symptom of my vampirism tends to make people uncomfortable.

Eventually, Mordelia falls asleep on the sofa, her plate sliding off of her lap as she slumps into a deep slumber, and I catch it before it can flip and throw crumbs and pizza sauce everywhere. I take an old tartan throw that Fiona had given me and drape it over her gently-snoring form, tucking a spare pillow beneath her head. Knowing Mordelia, she'll sleep deeply, and well.

Then, I pocket my keys, and my wand, and I head out into the darkness of a London before dawn.

I could do this from my balcony. But I’d rather not invite animals into my home. 

The city's horribly busy even this early in the morning, too bright and packed with people to let me hunt under the cover of full darkness. It helps that I'm able to blend in with the crowds of merry-makers and university students going out drinking; but I don’t want to imagine what the headlines would say, should I get caught in the act.

The prospect isn't comforting in the slightest; not to mention what the Coven would do to me if they realised what I was. Fiona might be a vampire hunter, but that doesn’t grant me diplomatic immunity. 

(There’s a reason she keeps so many of our magickal heirlooms hidden at her flat, in case the house in Hampshire gets searched. It makes her feel better knowing I have a plan-B. I wish I could feel the same, but it’s difficult knowing that my aunt’s colleagues would happily torch me given half a chance.)

I find a quiet alleyway eventually; a grey space behind a kebab shop that smells strongly of rancid grease and old curry. I don't even want to think about the dirt on the walls and floor. 

" **A bird in the hand!** " I cast, and then I wait. It's an old hunting spell I had found a long time ago in the family library, though I only ever used  **doe, a deer** at home. But there aren't any deer this far into the city - at least, not enough that the absence of a few would go unnoticed. It’s an inconvenience, but I was getting sick of deer, anyway. 

Within a minute, fifteen fat pigeons have gathered around my feet. They’re greasy, ragged birds. If this is what London cuisine has to offer, I have a feeling that I will find myself growing sick of it all too quickly. 

Still. Needs must, I suppose.

I drain every last one.

* * *

**Simon**

When I wake up, I’m on the floor, which isn’t all that unusual. My wings have a habit of cramping up if I lie in the same position too long, and I toss and turn in my sleep and eventually just fall straight out of bed. It’s not fun. My entire left side is covered in bruises, because that's how I usually land.

I’m on the living-room floor, my back against the side of the sofa, my wings open, splayed across the armrest. It takes me a minute to come back to myself; and when I do, I realise that I’ve got pins and needles in my wrist. Lazy mid-morning sunlight filters in through the blinds. 

It’s a Sunday, which means I don’t have to go into work, and... somebody is trying to batter down my door. 

“Simon!” Penny’s voice. “Are you in?”

I groan. Penny has her own key, so I don’t know why she does this every time she visits. I heave myself to my feet, my eyes feeling tired and sore from the late night, and check that I’ve managed to clear up most of the mess in the living room and kitchen. It’s marginally cleaner than it was before. 

I open the door.

Penny comes in almost immediately, striding into the kitchen and setting a carrier bag down on the counter. I can smell bacon. She’s got her hair up in a messy topknot on top of her head, and she’s wearing a soft jumper. She looks so much more relaxed now that the Humdrum’s gone - the extra breathing room now that we don’t have the fate of the world on our shoulders has done her good. It’s given her a purpose. 

Her magic’s stronger than ever, too. It’s not suffocating like mine used to be, but her corner of the kitchen is filled with the sage-tea-incense scent of it.

“Micah told me to tell you that he would’ve been here too, but he has a study group this morning. I assumed you were up late yesterday, Si.” She says. “So I got us both breakfast.”

I nod. “Yeah. Tidying up. Thanks, Pen.” 

“I can tell. You’ve put the sword of mages in your umbrella stand.”

She’s right. I don’t dismiss it when I’m hanging around the flat because of how unreliable my magic is these days, and so it’s there, propped up next to the door, the hilt poking out from the top of the narrow rattan basket that I'm supposed to put my umbrella in but never actually use. I’d worried I wouldn’t be able to find it under all the mess after I’d lost track of it at some point last night.  


I honestly don’t know what I’d do without her. 

We have bacon-and-egg butties and tea - the nice blend from Whittard’s that I’d won in a raffle at some fundraiser thing in the park over the summer. I think it was for the Dogs’ Trust, but I’m not sure. We’re almost out of the stuff, but I think I’ll be able to buy more when I get paid at the end of the month, and I make a mental note to refill the tin when I get a chance. They give you a discount at the till if you refill your own caddy from home instead of buying a new one. 

“Si?” Penny again. “You really didn’t sleep well, did you?” 

“What?”

“You keep drifting away. Like you’re distracted. Or tired.”

“No, s’ fine.” I say, and then, because I can think of nothing else, “I’ve got a new neighbor.”

“Oh?” She raises a brow. 

“Yeah. He’s a prick.”

Penny laughs. “What did he do?”

“Right, well - He’s this right posh git, y’know? Like, he’s from money, and he’s really in-your-face about it. And I knocked the table over last night, because I'd heard him stomping around outside all of a sudden, and it startled me, yeah?” 

Penny nods. 

“ So I open the door, and he just sneers at me. Because he’s dropped a box of plates and apparently that’s all my fault.”

“Admittedly, if you’d startled him, that’s reasonable.” She says. I shake my head. 

“Yeah, I know, Pen.” I sigh. “But then I offer to replace any that might be broken, because it’s the right thing to do, right? And he turns around and says ‘don’t bother’, all condescendingly.” 

“He might just have wanted to get on with his evening, Simon. You know how stressful moving can be.” 

“I doubt it. He left a mess behind him on the carpet. As if he expected me to pick it up. Which I did- but, y’know, that’s just  _ rude _ , Pen!” I can’t help but whine. 

She snorts, and then - “Got any plans for today?” 

“It’s a bit late in the day to do much, with how the crowds round here get on a Sunday.” I say, looking out the window at the sky. By my judging I reckon it’s about ten. “Might go for a walk, later. After dark. Stretch my wings out a bit.”

“You’ll have to be careful. Do I need to spell them for you?”

“I’m in work tomorrow, but we’ll have the place to ourselves. I think I can work around everyone else.” I tell her, and Penny nods. “What was that spell Micah wanted to try?”

Penny pulls out a little notebook, with neon-coloured post-its bristling from between the pages. It’s half-full of every spell we’ve tried so far, colour-coded depending on how effective they are, or whether they even work at all. Most of them haven’t. 

Penny adjusts her glasses on her nose, and thumbs through it to a page somewhere near the middle. I can make out her crabbed handwriting and Micah’s lazy scrawl, spilling theories and words out over the thin, lined paper. Eventually, she makes a little ‘Aha!’, a sound of victory, and I know she’s found it. 

“ En las barbas de alguien?” I say, doing my best to get the inflections right, but Penny cringes, and I know I’m nowhere close to what the phrase should sound like. She might be nowhere near fluent, but she’s picked up the language quicker than I have. 

(It doesn’t hurt that Micah’s been teaching her since our fourth year at Watford. I only started learning when he moved back to England, and the Duolingo owl haunts my every waking moment at this point.)

Penny looks up. “Yeah. That.”

“What’s it mean?” I ask her. I must look completely lost, because she sighs and makes a face.

“The literal translation is ‘ _ On someone’s beard _ ’.”

“And what does that have to do with hiding  _ these _ ?” I say, unable to help the uptick in my voice, gesturing at the leathery red wings that sprout from somewhere between my shoulderblades.

Penny rolls her eyes. “It’s idiomatic, Si.” She says. “There’s an English equivalent - ‘ _ hidden in plain sight’ _ , _ ‘under one’s nose _ ’ - that sort of thing - but Micah thinks it might be stronger in Spanish.”

“It’s worth a try.” I say. Her eyes are full of hope. I struggle to look at them.

* * *

**Baz**

When I wake up, it’s to the sound of a loud voice complaining, “Basil, I’ve missed my train.” 

“Mordelia-” I can’t help but groan. I can already hear the rumble of traffic through the paper-thin walls, even though it’s Sunday, because London is full of tourists and the landlord is evidently too cheap to put in any form of cavity insulation or soundproofing. 

This morning’s already turning to shit. The curtains are flung wide open and the windows are east-facing, and I simply can’t handle such bright light this soon after waking. I hiss involuntarily and grit my teeth, and throw an arm over my eyes. 

There’s a loud clinking of curtain-rings, and the light dims and softens as Mordelia shoves her hand towards the window and mutters an  **and the curtain falls** . She casts with one of Daphne’s inherited signet rings; and one would think that she would lend herself to soft, sweeping gestures, like her mother; but Mordelia’s magic is vibrant and flippant and elbows its way into conversations, much like its caster. She’s like Fiona in that respect. 

“Merlin. _Shit_.” She says. “Sorry - I completely forgot.” 

“‘S fine.” I grit out. It’s too late. I’m going to end the day with a migraine because of this. “What’s this about a train?”

“I should have been at the station fifteen minutes ago.” Mordelia says. I finally look over at her. She’s dressed in her clothes from yesterday, sitting criss-cross on top of the duvet at the end of my bed, and she’s spelled her hair from the pink it was last night to a soft mint-green colour. 

I raise an eyebrow, picking up my phone from its spot on the nightstand and checking the time. It’s just gone ten. 

“The pink suited you.”

“You were still asleep and I was bored.” She says, matter-of-factly. “I used a  **green with envy** .”

“Mordy.” I say, at last. “Why - for Crowley’s sake - If you had time to do that, why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Because you got in late last night.” She says. “And those dark circles under your eyes say that you need every bit of rest you can get.”

I sigh. She’s utterly exasperating when she gets like this. There’s no arguing with her. “That’s - I can take care of myself. You should have woken me - when’s the next train?”

“An hour.” She says. “I already looked it up, Basilton. Chill.”

“I am  _ chill _ .”

“You’ve never been chill in your life.”

I roll my eyes. She rolls hers right back at me. I have no clue where she picked it up - Daphne and Father aren’t fans of uncouth manners. 

“C’mon.” She crows. I try to tell myself that I have no idea at all why I even put up with this. 

“Get yourself sorted. You don’t have three hours to do your hair, so you’ll have to make do with dry shampoo like every other sane person on the planet.” Mordelia chirps, and grins at me from her perch on the end of the bed. 

I can’t help but grin back - she's alright, really.

* * *

**Simon**

I try the Spanish spell. My magic flares to life eventually, but it’s all for nothing; I just can’t get the pronunciation right. 

Penny jots yet another failure down in her notebook, and I do my best to look disappointed. It’s tricky. 

Then, we crash out on the sofa with a tub of ice-cream and a tray of scones between us, and put something on Netflix. It might be a documentary. I’m not entirely sure, because Penny picked it. 

I’m already thinking about how I'll navigate the wing situation at work. Neither Penny nor Micah will have a chance to swing by and spell them for me tomorrow, but I can deal with that. At the moment I’m with one of those companies that renovates places for people with too much money to throw around - we have to decorate, and restore, and repaint and replace, and clear up the gardens of big old manors and listed buildings and expensive flats. A lot of the time, they’re empty, and I always try to volunteer to deal with the rooms that are big enough for my wings to stretch to their full span. There haven’t been any accidents yet, the pay’s decent, and I’m getting good at cutting in around ceilings and corners with a paintbrush.

I work Mondays through Fridays, hauling furniture and bags of earth and paint around, changing and rebuilding things, and it’s different - the good kind of different, where you feel like you finally have space to move after being stuck in the same place for too long. 

On Saturdays, I work the sunrise shift at a bakery a few streets away from King’s Cross, and the manager says that I could probably get into culinary school if I really wanted to. 

I haven’t decided yet. I feel as if I’m going nowhere, but there's nothing I can do.

Penny and I slowly get to the end of the ice cream, and there are only a few scones left. The documentary hasn’t finished, but Penny pauses it.

“Let’s get out of this flat, Si.” She says. “We could go get on the Tube - explore piccadilly or westminster or something.” 

The Coven pays for limitless Oyster cards for the two of us. It’s one of the perks of saving the magickal world. I don’t use mine. 

I sigh. 

“And we should take some scones ‘round to your neighbour. It might get you on his good side.” She adds, and there’s something in her eyes.

“Pen.” I whine. “He’s a prick!”

“And he might not be in the future,” Penny says, “If we show him that you mean well.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes - but a few minutes later, my wings are invisible, and I’m at the door, a plate of scones in hand. 

* * *

**Baz**

I haven’t thought about my neighbor since last night. As far as I'm concerned, he’s just another gormless Normal, and I don't have time to deal with him. 

Ten minutes before we’re supposed to leave for King’s Cross, though, there’s a knock at the door, and I realise that he might be becoming a recurring issue. He’s bloody loud, for one thing, and I can imagine that the sound of him might echo through the entire building. 

I don’t even have my shoes on. 

I jerk the door open with perhaps a little more aggression than usual, and can’t help but look down snidely at him. It’s incredibly easy. He’s at least three inches shorter than I am. 

“I do have a doorbell, you know.”

“Oh.” He says, and looks at it. I roll my eyes. His lack of observational skills is truly a travesty, because from an objective point of view, he’s handsome in a way that the bad lighting of this building at midnight somehow managed to disguise. 

“Did you come here for any reason in particular,” I ask him, unable to help the audible disdain in my voice, “or were you just doing your best impression of a charging rhinoceros in the corridor?”

His face flames red, a flush spreading over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, staining the tips of his ears. It has no right to look as fetching on him as it does. 

_ Aliester Crowley _ . This is a nightmare. He’s a nightmare. 

“Uh - sorry.” He splutters, as if the words are all caught up in his throat. Can he say anything else? My overall impression of him is that he’s just one never-ending stream of ‘um’s and ‘ah’s and pitiful expressions. 

He’s no mage. A mage’s power lies in their words, and he can barely get a sentence out, preferring shrugs or grunts. It should be irritating. I should definitely find it irritating.

“I’m Simon - from next door, we met yesterday?” 

“I am aware. I was there.” I sneer at him. I really should be getting on before Mordy misses her second train. The sooner he leaves, the better.

Mordelia’s in the kitchen, I think; making tea, because her voice pipes up all of a sudden; “Basil, where’s the sugar?”

“In the left cupboard above the oven.” I call over my shoulder and turn back to Simon. He’s mouthing ‘Basil?’ over and over, as if he can’t believe that it’s a real name, and it grates on my nerves. He looks like a goldfish, swimming dumbly around its bowl and surrounded by its own stupidity.

“I didn’t know that ‘Basil’ started with a T.” He says, at last, and I’d think he was joking if there wasn’t a scrunch in his eyebrows that’s oddly endearing, in an annoying-lost-puppy kind of way. He’s looking at the card beside the door - the one Daphne made - and I suppress a groan and make a mental note to correct it as soon as possible. 

“It’s short for  _ Basilton _ .” I say instead, in a vague attempt to save face. “It’s my middle name.”

“Well, er - I made scones.” He says, and I notice at last that there’s a tray in his hands, wrapped in cling film. “I didn’t know if you wanted any- they’re just flour and butter and sugar and-“

He needs to leave. I’m going to be late. He’s an obstacle. 

“I’m gluten-intolerant.” I cut him off, the lie falling sharply from my lips, and I see him flush red once more, expression twisting into a disgruntled frown, before I shut the door in his face. I’m sure my own expression mirrors it.

I suppose I have every right to be angry. Mordelia’s going to miss her train again.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> In case y’all are wondering, I did actually calculate exactly how many rats or pigeons it would take for a vampire to meet their recommended daily intake. It’s somewhere on my blog, vintagecar-but-onfire.tumblr.com, if anyone’s interested.
> 
> Also, re: the Spanish in this chapter. I can speak Spanish, but I’m not as fluent as I’d like to be, so if anyone notices that I’ve made any mistakes, please do point them out.
> 
> As per normal, feel free to drop a kudos or comment! Let me know your theories and opinions, say hi, or just yell at me in the comment box! I love hearing from you guys!


	3. What Gravity Does

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm back again with another chapter! This one's just over 1000 words longer than intended, and parts of it were v. difficult to write. But we've got some more POVs to work with as a result. 
> 
> Infinite thanks once again to the brilliant @Britishbooks for their proofreading, analysis and encouragement - I don't think I could have finished this without them cheering me on. :)

**Penelope**

I can’t help but worry about Simon. 

It’s a habit, by now; and it seems to have gotten so much worse since we both left Watford. He seems diminished, now - as if, without his magic, he’s smaller, and fragile. More breakable, maybe. And it took me far too long to notice. 

He’d deny it if anyone brought it up, because it’s just like Simon to bury his head in the sand when he doesn’t want to think about a problem. I try to get him to talk about it, but he fights me every step of the way.

Even when we were at Watford, when the threat of the Humdrum was constantly at our backs, and there was a new monster to fend off every other week, at least Simon was able to keep on moving forward. At least he didn’t ever get a chance to fall too deeply into his own head. 

I’d seen him before the summers he’d spend in the Homes. He seems the same now. Stagnant. Stuck. The spark in his eyes had just blown out, all of a sudden, like a candle. 

Extinguished. Poof. Gone. The light’s dim.

He only seems to get it back when he’s practicing his footwork or swinging his sword around, although it doesn’t see much use any more, and it’s like he’s almost manic - grabbing onto what joy he can get with both hands and not letting go. 

Frankly, I’m surprised he can still summon the sword, but it was the one spell he could always get right. I suppose at least it’s something familiar. 

I’m fairly sure he feels that there’s no need for him. Which couldn’t be further from the truth, but the Coven have all but cast him out. The only reason he really remains in the Book is for the sheer symbolism of it, because the Coven always have been pretentious like that. It’s a gimmick, and nothing more, and I’m certain that the second they think he’s lost it all for good, they’ll strike him from our records and wash their hands of him.

Apart from my parents and the Wellbeloves, nobody believes that he’ll get his magick back. Which is bullshit, but there’s nothing anyone can do about it. I’m still trying, but it feels hopeless. 

They’d talked about wiping his memory and snapping his wand, at the trials - Simon had been recovering at Watford, drifting in and out of consciousness and unable to defend himself from their accusations, and if it wasn’t for us, the Old Families would have gotten what they wanted. It had been a blow to everyone. Simon had gone all quiet when he'd seen it in the newspaper after he woke up. 

But now, I’m not entirely sure that this isn’t worse. I know it’s so much better than the alternative. But it hurts to look at him, stuck in his own head inside his flat. I just want to keep him safe. 

And that’s the weird thing. We won. We _are_ safe. We should be celebrating, but it doesn’t feel like winning.

I should have seen it coming. Simon wouldn’t have, because he doesn’t notice things unless they’re right in front of him - he gets taken aback by Tuesdays, for snakes’ sake. I’m the one who plans ahead. 

But I was too happy to get the chance to  _ live _ without constantly having to watch our backs, and I left the issue alone. I should have known that the end of the war wouldn’t solve anything. If I had, I’d have acted sooner. 

And Simon… Simon lost all of it. 

His magic. Watford. The Mage.

The closest thing to a father he had, who he saw killed - who he struck the last blow of the war against, even if it was an accident. Who brushed him off until he was needed. Who treated him like an investment, a volatile weapon, but who Simon looked to for guidance anyway. Simon’s first link to magick. That Mage. 

The Mage who killed Ebb. 

Ebb, who wasn’t a mother figure, not exactly, but who definitely loved him. Who looked after him, who cared about him. Who wanted to keep him safe, like one of her goats. Ebb, who somehow understood what it was like to have all that power and nowhere to rest. Who Simon went to when he was sad, or couldn’t deal with the suffocating weight of destiny on his shoulders. 

Sometimes, when he was like that, I couldn’t help but treat him like broken glass, but Ebb had no trouble with it. She'd just offer him tea and biscuits and sit with him until whatever storm he was dealing with had passed.

I should have seen this coming. And yet I was just happy that it was over. That Simon and I would live through our teens and out the other side. And I wanted to - to live without worrying that I was sleeping on a deadline. That it would all blow up in our faces at the end. 

I didn’t gallivant off to California like  _ some people _ , but I wanted to be a teenager while I still could. To make stupid mistakes. To be able to mess up without it being life-or-death. 

To go to college, where the classes weren’t at risk of being cancelled by worsegers on the football field. 

And perhaps I’d been naïve. I was so glad to have Simon mostly whole and hale and alive - yes, plus a few extra parts, but we could find ways to deal with that - that I’d thought that winning would fix everything. Fill all the holes in Simon, the way that his magick had fixed the Humdrum. 

And I was wrong. Because stars don't always go up in a flash - sometimes they sputter out, slowly, collapsing in on themselves until they finally go cold.

I help him with the wings, when I can. It’s the least I can do; according to Dr. Wellbelove, they can’t be removed surgically, and he took the news hard. We kept researching, but the results were grim.  No blade can cut through dragon-scales and sinew. we learned that at Watford. 

Since Simon’s magick put them there, it will have to be Simon who spells them off, and none of us want to face the possibility that it just… might not happen. That he’ll be like this for life. We can’t put a contingency plan in place, not without his input, and Si refuses to talk about it. 

He’s aimless, and it’s changing him, like how driftwood is sanded smooth by the currents. He’s losing his grasp on everything that made him  _ Simon _ . He’s slipping away, and I can’t get enough grip to drag him out of it - everything I try seems to push him further out to sea. 

I’d take him away from all of this, if I could. I’ve tried to distract him from it - to give him something else to focus on. He’s tried out the local fencing and boxing clubs at my insistence, and occasionally he’ll be convinced to go and kick a football about or have a quick game of rugby with the lads our age that hang around the local pub and the chippy, but nothing seems to stick. He always shrinks back into himself, after so long. He’s lost his momentum.

I need to get him up, and out of here. Out of the flat. Away from whatever’s weighing him down, at least for a while. He doesn’t take well to loneliness. Maybe a change of scenery will do him good. I don’t like to admit it, but when it comes to this I’m as lost as he is. We made a pact not to keep secrets, but he’s omitting things. And it’s weird, and it’s thrown me completely off-balance. 

Where should I stand? I should know how to deal with this. I’ve helped him fight monsters and figure out prophecies, but this is so much more complicated. He won’t talk to me. 

A night at the pub won’t fix it all, but I’ll count anything as a win if it’ll get him out of his flat and back into the sunshine, where he belongs. The rest will have to come later.

_ Oh, Simon. Where did you go? _

* * *

**Fiona**

I’m doing my best to look out for him, Natasha. Your boy. Basilton. But it’s hard work, pretending I’ve got it all together, and he can see right through it.

He’s my favourite - perhaps that’s why I let him get away with all of it. 

He’s smart as a whip. Cocky, too, almost too much of both for his own good. He’s spent the best part of this year so far living out of my spare room, pinching my booze and coffee and the biscuits out of the pantry when it suits him, and I should be mad, or worried, but I suppose he’s picked it up from me.  _ This _ was never meant to be my job. I’m no good at it. 

He’s almost a spitting image of you. The poor kid inherited his father’s hairline, unfortunately, but the similarities have always been there. And now he’s striking out on his own, and it feels like another piece of you is slipping through the cracks as he does.

Growing up without you was tough on him. I’ve said that before; that you’d scraped the bottom of the barrel when you married a Grimm, but I know Malcolm cares for him, in his own way. But that’s the issue. 

Malcolm just hasn’t ever been much of a fatherly type. A mentor, sure. A negotiator, a politician, a lawyer when he’s needed to be, before Basil could stand up for himself. But not a father, not quite. Daphne’s mellowed him out a bit, I think. But he’s still better at pulling strings and manipulating people than he ever was at doing his fucking job and  _ parenting _ .

You’d have liked Daphne - she was only a year or two behind us in Watford. She pulled Malcolm out of hell after you left, and it’s thanks to her that Basil has a father at all. I can respect that. At least, thanks to her, the house was bright while your boy grew up, instead of being shut up and curtained.

And now Basil’s going to music school. Secretly. You’d be proud of him, if you could see it. The boy has a way with fire, just like you - and he’s all trouble. It’s no wonder that his sister takes after him so much. He’s like a changeling - like a storm in a bottle, when he wants to be. He just blows people over. A bloody force of nature, at times, too large for life.

If it’s a front, it’s a damn convincing one. 

We should have chucked him in the Thames. Left him out for the faeries. He’s a good kid, mostly, but there’s a defiant streak in him a mile wide, and that’s not always a good thing. Not when it risks putting him in the coven’s firing-line. 

I keep our grandparents’ jewellery in the flat. Most of what was in the manor was taken a long time ago, and there’s a chance - Merlin forbid - that your boy might end up without a wand and eyeteeth. I’ll do what I can to prevent it, and protect him - of course I will. 

But I can’t make promises. I think you know me better than to assume that I’d pin everything on oaths when the fucking Coven’s concerned. 

I want to keep him close - within arm’s reach. Convince him to stay in my flat for longer before venturing further out into the world, where I can keep him safe from the Coven and anything else that might hurt him. But I’m shite at it.

Look at me. I’m thirty-seven years old, and I fall asleep on my grotty old sofa most nights and have bikkies for breakfast the next day. I plot and scheme and go out and kill things, and waste the money on things I shouldn’t buy. 

He’d never admit it. I’m not the kind of adult he should have in his life, but I’m all he’s got right now and he needs me, so I’m here. But he’d never admit that, so I don’t bring it up. 

But I know about the nightmares, however indistinct and well-hidden they are, and I know that he remembers you, albeit vaguely. And it frightens me. He’s made of trouble, and he’s picked up my unfortunate habit of running myself into the ground. But he’s got it all somewhat sorted, at least. 

He’s getting out. I’m convinced he’ll do fine on his own. 

The doubts linger, though. Christ, Tasha, a stray spark could light him up like dry tinder. My smoking habit doesn’t help that in the least, I suppose. 

I wish I could be closer to him than being all the way across the block. It feels like I'm losing him. He’s falling away from me.

I know you can probably guess what happened after everything went up in smoke. He’s convinced that you would have let him die; that he’s a monster. He’s not, but he’s a fucking idiot at times. 

He’s got your eyes. You loved him - would have loved him a hell of a lot fiercer than I ever could. 

If he’d gone to Watford, you could have Visited him this year to tell him that, but it’s too late now. Veil’s closed, and your Basilton is growing up fast. I can’t stop him flying the nest, and I’m not going to attempt it.

But I’m trying to give him a safe place to land, as far as I can. And I can’t help but be proud.

I think you’d be, too.

* * *

**Simon**

After the fiasco with the awful neighbor, Penny and I leave the scones behind. I tell Penny that it’s not worth the hassle or wasted breath, and she looks at me as if I’ve grown two heads. 

Honestly, I can’t blame her. I’ve surprised myself. But there’s no use trying to argue with the man. Not tonight. I’d usually stick the issue, but instead I’m stuck on apathy and avoidance.

I’ve spent eight years hounded by trouble, and now I’m going to take the chance to stay away from it where I can. 

When he’d opened the door, he’d looked just as posh as he’d been yesterday, but somehow a little less polished. His hair had been pulled back into a messy ponytail away from his face, and he hadn’t been wearing shoes. He’d looked good, but he’d obviously been running late. And maybe I had stalled a bit, because he was in a hurry. Maybe it was my own petty revenge for the plate thing yesterday. 

And maybe I’d felt a little bad about it afterwards, because I might hate the posh wanker, but he’d obviously also been absolutely frazzled.

I don’t want to think about it tonight, because Penny’s hand is warm in mine, tugging me along the crowded pavement. These last few weeks, she’s seemed almost fearful to - to give me hugs, or grab hold of me when she wanted to make a point, and this is a welcome change. She thinks I haven’t noticed, but I do. Notice it, that is.

I’m not stupid. I know this is a distraction from whatever she thinks is in my head. I don’t want to tell her that there’s just nothing there - that I’m too tired to even think about the future, because spending your childhood knowing that you’re going to die young and tragically tends to shorten your outlook on life. 

She’s got all that energy - all that magic - and she’ll leave me behind eventually and go off with Micah, and she’ll be happy. I can’t bring myself to tell her to go, not yet, but I know I’m dragging her down with me.

I can see it in her eyes, when she thinks I’m not looking. Magic was all I was, and now I can’t even bring myself to think of the stuff. There’s nothing left of me. 

**I** don’t think about it, but my mind ties itself in knots about it anyway. 

We’d walked fairly far, and she’d wanted to go to the historic bits of Westminster and have a look around just to see what it was like, and now it’s getting late and we’re heading in the general direction of my flat. 

But first, Penny and I head out towards a pub down the road. The Duck and Cover, it’s called - and it seems like a cool place, all modern on the outside, but made up to look like some sort of Victorian tavern indoors. It probably would be pretty realistic, too, but there’s a new-ish touch-screen jukebox on the wall, and the bar’s surrounded by neon strips, and some Ed Sheeran song is thumping through the speakers, which kinda spoils the whole effect a bit. 

Micah’s agreed to meet us there for beer and darts, and Penny’s telling me about the last date they had there, and how she’d beaten him at snooker. She’s laughing. I haven’t seen her laugh often at all - not properly - and the thought hurts. 

I’ll make my own way home, I think. I haven’t been drinking, because I’ll need to get up early for work tomorrow. We’re working on some house up near Oxford - a hunting-lodge belonging to some lord or other that needs remodelling, and it’s a hell of a journey just for the part-time stuff I do, so I’ve applied for extra hours. I’ll be there all day instead of just a morning or afternoon at a time. 

At least it gets me out of the flat.

* * *

**Baz**

We end up getting to King’s Cross on time for the latest train, thank Crowley. Mordelia and I had had to push through the rain-drenched crowds, casting  **make way for the king** left, right, and centre, and I’m almost completely drained by the end of it, but what matters is that Mordy gets on the right train and has the timetable memorised for when she has to change over onto a different line.

As far as I know, the Normal neighbor had left the building by the time we had left, and his tray of scones is left at the side of our doorway like a bad comeback, like he’s trying to have the last word. 

As if. 

He still hasn’t returned, and it’s mid-evening by the time I get back into my flat, so I pick the tray up. If the scones are left out, the sugar in them will only invite the rats and ants in. They don’t seem like they would give me food poisoning, if catching salmonella was even within the range of possibility for me, but I'm not going to risk it. 

I drop them into the bin, and push the empty tray back through Simon’s letterbox. I’m not a massive fan of scones, anyway, and the sooner my neighbor learns to leave me alone, the better. 

Then, I take my wand and an umbrella, pulling up the collar of my coat to try and ward off the bitter wind. It’s a nasty evening turning into a dirty night; the grey clouds toss and roll over the city, bringing with them a dense fog and a persistent drizzle. I can’t help but think of it as pathetic fallacy. 

It’s a Sunday, and in this weather the streets further from the city centre are less crowded. I could go to the docklands, towards Canary Wharf, but it’s a bad idea. I’d just be a bigger target against a blank background. 

I head to Piccadilly Circus instead. The crowd here, even this late, is dense enough that I almost drown in it. The air smells of petrol and damp pavements and ozone, and the footfall of a million bodies, crushing and milling like ants as they ebb and flow around me, and I can’t help but stop dead, lifting my umbrella to stop it catching on those carried by the people around me. 

Crowds are difficult. In Hampshire we were near the New Forest, with miles of woodland around and a small population who minded their own business. This, here, is overwhelming. All of a sudden, I find myself so thirsty that I can barely breathe, and here there’s no ample supply of ponies and deer to go after. 

It feels like there’s powdered glass caught in my throat, and the fangs drop so abruptly that I almost bite my tongue.  The bloodlust, when it’s like this, burns me from the inside out, and it would be sickening if it wasn’t so normal. If I wasn’t this.

I don’t enjoy it. I don’t revel in it, like those creatures that Fiona’s always sent out to despatch. But it’s a hunger I can never quite satisfy, and it’s painful and raw and red. Always red. 

Merlin.  _ Crowley _ . I need to find  _ something _ , before I wind up sinking my teeth into a tourist. 

I escape the madding crowd, and hear a distant, tinny clang; behind a kebab shop, an underfed fox is rooting through the bins. 

It will have to do. Now that Mordy’s gone, I can get the dreaded red stuff in cartons from the butcher instead, and keep it in the fridge. But none of the butchers’ shops are open this late on a Sunday night. It doesn’t bear thinking about - I don’t know if any of them are trustworthy yet, and the logistics of trying to keep a secret like mine in a place like this is something that requires a degree of mental gymnastics that I just don’t have time for right now. 

The fox’s blood is thin and unsatisfying, but it’s enough to curb the itch, and I can start to make my way home with a clearer head. It doesn’t take long. The rain has really set in by the time I leave the shelter of the alleyway, and I take the bus instead, glad that I’ve made it a habit to keep my Oyster card with me. 

Simon’s still not in by the time I get back to the flat, but I decide that it’s not something I need to concern myself with. The ramifications of earlier can wait. 

I’ve only been in London for two days, and I’m already exhausted.

* * *

**Simon**

I head home from the pub a little after eleven, and stay up through the night watching Doctor Who reruns until the sun just starts to peek over the skyline outside my window. 

The neighbour - Basilton - must have put the scone tray I’d left outside back through my letterbox, because it’s face-down on the hall carpet when I get home, and I nearly step on it on my way through the door. I’d be angry, but I can’t be bothered to get mad about it.

It’s been a good night, and I don’t want to ruin it. 

Penny hasn’t texted me, but I know she would have got home safely if Micah was with her. The two of them are so in-love that it honestly gets difficult to be around them at times, and it’s even worse when they’re tipsy. When I left, they were chattering away in spanish - Micah kept shooting Penny clumsy winks over a half-downed glass of Fireball that had her blushing furiously. 

All in all, it had been an alright evening out. For a while, I could feel like I was at least a bit normal, like we were just a group of friends going for a round at the local instead of… whatever we are now.

I felt a bit like this at Watford, if I’m honest. I had a room to myself for most of my time there - at the top of Mummers’ House, where my uncontrollable magic wouldn’t disturb anyone. 

In first year I’d shared a space with Gareth and Rhys, but they complained that I’d wake them up, yelling in my sleep and spilling magic. It’s not like I could have stopped the nightmares, so we all went and discussed it with the Mage, and by second year I had the tower suite to myself, and the best views across the moat towards the Wavering Wood and Ebb’s place. 

I try not to think about what happened to Ebb. Penny says it wasn’t my fault, but she wasn’t there. She didn’t see what I did - what the Mage was going to do, what Ebb did to stop him.  They’ve planted a garden in her memory, I think. She’s remembered as a hero. Some people are saying that perhaps she was the Greatest Mage of the prophecy after all. Her  **Helter Skelter** blew the roof off the White Chapel.

Nobody looks after the goats any more - it’s all done by magic alone. After Ebb, I don’t think anyone else wanted the job.

I’ve got work early this morning - it’s a long trip to Oxford, and commuting isn’t really an option when the site we’ve been working on is in the middle of nowhere. I can’t even think about affording to run a car of my own, and I don't know anyone I could carpool with. Instead, I do what any reasonable person in my situation would do. 

**I** fly.

It’s simpler than it seems. When the wings had first appeared, Doctor Wellbelove had got me practicing all kinds of flight maneuvers and exercises to work the new muscles I’d suddenly gained. I know what I’m doing, by now. It’s like instinct.

**I** can usually avoid busy and well-populated areas, and any Normals in them who might happen to look up. My phone has a reliable Sat-Nav. Long distances are tiring, but I can make it work. It’s a good kind of tired.

I just go to whichever of the nearby parks is least busy, find a clearing out of the way, and take off. It’s that easy. 

It’s like running, but it’s easier than running ever was. My heart doesn't beat out of my chest with every movement. I can just drift on the thermals, and nothing can catch me.

It’s like when I play football or rugby, or when I’ve got a sword in my hands; it’s a feeling that’s solid and heavy and more comfortable than holding a wand ever was. 

For a moment, I can feel untouchable. 

* * *

**Baz**

I’m woken by the neighbour. He’s either incredibly noisy, incredibly clumsy, or both. 

I can hear him thumping about; it seems like his living room must share a wall with my bedroom, which is totally illogical and an annoyance besides. If he’s going to become a problem, I think I might well report him to the Council.

He’s cursing, and something keeps knocking and scraping against the wall, and I can hear the TV on in the background. It’s turned up obscenely loud for this time of morning.

I roll over and get up, taking my wand and phone from my bedside table and checking the time . It’s not even seven in the morning yet. After tossing and turning all night I’ve had less than four hours’ sleep, but I won’t be able to doze off again if he keeps up his racket. 

Merlin, Morgan and Methusalah, the noise is  _ atrocious _ . 

I wander into the bombsite that is my kitchen - after yesterday’s mad rush, I never did get round to spelling everything into place - and flick on the light. 

And then I start unpacking properly. It’s going to be a long day.

* * *

**Simon**

I’m just leaving the flat when I run directly into the neighbor. Basilton, or whatever his name is. He’s wearing a neatly-pressed blazer today, and there’s a cup of takeaway coffee in one hand and a carrier of shopping in the other. He’s scowling at the sight of me, and I can’t help but growl a little. 

He’s a prick. No doubt about it.

* * *

**Baz**

Simon barrels through his door and into the hallway just as I'm about to ring his doorbell and confront him about the noise. The TV had turned off around the time I’d finished unpacking the last box of kitchen paraphernalia, but the odd thumping and banging had continued to echo through the walls, until the sound invaded my entire flat. 

Through the doorway, I catch a glimpse of dents in the walls, and what looks like the hilt of a sword poking out of an umbrella stand. But the door’s firmly locked behind him before I can examine the entryway of his flat more closely. 

Is that what the noise is? Is he some kind of reenactor, or an historic weapons enthusiast? I find it unlikely. Simon seems far too ordinary for that. 

He looks like a disaster. He’s wearing an old pair of tracksuit bottoms, and a hoodie covered in paint stains, and that ugly brown coat, and he’s moving too quickly, as if trying to get out as fast as possible. There’s a backpack sling over one shoulder. I can’t help but look askance at him, and he makes an angry sound that might be a growl. 

I can’t help but be surprised, just a little. But Simon seems like a hopeless chav, so perhaps I probably should have expected it. 

“Must you insist on making so much noise?” I ask.

He turns on his heel, startlingly graceful as he does. 

“What?”

I shake my head. “I woke up far earlier than planned because of you. You kept whacking into walls.” 

A scowl crawls across his face. “It’s not like I can help it, Baz.”

“Baz?” That’s new. I raise a brow. 

“Well.” Simon mumbles, and the tips of his ears flush pink. His eyes are downcast, a perfectly ordinary blue. “It’s less of a mouthful than  _ Basilton _ , innit?”

I look at him again, searching for any sign of a jest or a jibe. He looks oddly sincere. 

“I suppose you have a point.” I say. “Frankly, I’m surprised that you could come up with something so logical.”

Simon’s brow creases, and his cheeks turn ruddy. I can practically hear the wheels turning in his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He suddenly pipes up, indignant. 

It’s like watching a chihuahua barking. Annoying, and vaguely pitiful. I can't quite curb the acidity in my tone when I make my retort. 

“Why were you making so much noise this morning? At least come up with a good excuse.” 

I really do want to know. I think I deserve an explanation, really, from this hopelessly dim normal who lives down the hall. To make up for a night of ruined sleep, of course.

It has nothing to do with the fact that I can’t help but find something about him charming, for some reason that I don't want to examine closer. Nothing at all. 

He goes towards the stairwell, and I follow, intent on prodding until I get a satisfactory answer. But then - 

Simon turns abruptly to look at me, a worried frown on his face. Then, something knocks into my ankles mid-stride, and I'm knocked off-balance and sent hurtling abruptly towards the floor.

I catch myself on Simon’s shoulder and he flinches away, but I somehow manage to regain my balance. Barely. Only just, by the skin of my teeth.

Simon... Simon isn’t so lucky. 

**  
  
  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. There we have it. I've low-key been excited about writing this chapter for a while! Feel free to tell me your opinions or theories, say hi, or just yell at me in the comments, and leave a kudos! it absolutely makes my day to see people's reactions! Also, I'm @Vintagecar-but-onfire on tumblr if anyone wants to say hi :)
> 
> On a more serious note - Future updates may be a little more sporadic, since some major things have happened to make my personal schedule a lot more hectic. I'm going to try to update at least once a fortnight, but I can't make any promises. 
> 
> Catch y'all later,  
> Vin :)

**Author's Note:**

> Drop a comment or kudos if you can, and let me know what you think - talking to y'all makes my day. :)


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